The New Order: Last Days of Remnant
by Worldfan
Summary: The men of the dark year of 1962 never anticipated they would not see the darkness of the world they knew any longer, but a new world with a new chance for mankind.
1. Prologue

The cold, bitter, unflinching and tall mountains of the Urals stood, towering over the world below. The cold winds swept over the stone behemoths, the ruthless force of nature caring little for the world around it. The Urals however, laid quiet, no sound except the wind could be heard on this day. The snow and ice coated the nature, suffocating it in its cold grip, killing most life that remained.

But there was life still, clinging to the world around it, in a solemn and somber existence. For the year of 1962 brought no happiness among the people of the Ural mountains, they were still subjected to the same death and horror as the year before. The CCCP was gone,and with it went any civility and sense of organized civilization, with the terrified populace grouping together only in small villages, towns and the occasional city. The once beautiful Russian land was now scarred with bomb craters and scattered shrapnel, the work of the Luftwaffe, their bombers flying overhead like heralds of death. The people had other problems to deal with however, the infighting of rural communes and small villages played a minor role in the peoples lack of civilization, the bombers terrified the people and decimated the land, but the worst that came were the raiders. Weather they came in small bands or large groups, they came fast and struck hard with indiscriminate attitudes as to who would taste the lead of their rifles. The worst of these raiders being a name well known in the region, Oskar Dirlewanger. The former Schutzstaffel officer and his Dirlewanger Brigade roamed the land pillaging, raping, burning and destroying anyone and everything they who they saw as a prime target for their plundering. The "Black Bandit" as he became known, arrived in the city of Orsk one fateful day, there was no welcome for Dirlewanger as he proceeded to butcher the town, he himself shoving his Karbiner 98 into the mayors mouth, before unleashing a 7.92X57mm bullet into his throat. From Orsk Dirlewanger rains terror over the region, with his mixed band of German, Russian, and Kazakh raiders slaughtering their targeted villages and towns until the place once used for the housing of sometimes even thousands of civilians, breathed no more.

Though the raiders were not the only trouble for the people of the region, in the Infamous Black Mountain, Based out of Magnitogorsk, lied the cold and cruel members of the 22nd NKVD Motor Rifle Division, headed by the scientist and near madman Trofim Lysenko. Unlike with the raiders who inflicted pain and terror through the end of the rifle, the roar of the loud engine and the frontward slaughter of all they could find, the NKVD inflicted terror and paranoia on many through silence and . The NKVD acted almost as shadows, never seen, barely heard, and with a reputation only told of in the stories and rumors of the people. Slowly over time people would notice the disappearances of their neighbors and friends, and then realize they could do nothing except prey they were not the next one to be taken away in the silence, to be dragged into the secluded and dark labs and factories that made up the NKVD's base of operations. Lysenko uses his captured victims to attempt to create his Super Soldat. Lysenko's lack of success in this goal has only further decreased his already questionable sanity, unnerving the many NKVD agents who enforce his will. Even a member of the methodical machine that makes up Lysenko's power is not safe, as silence and order rain over all living things, and anyone who would be suspected of treason against the doctor would most certainly find themselves dragged away into some cell or interrogation room, only to find themselves facing death immediately or the occasional torture to draw out a confession of false crimes to keep a facade of legitimacy. Lysenko cares little for any lives wasted or destroyed in his attempts to create his ultimate weapon and perfect human biological limits.

However, even in the darkness and violence of the sadistic and malevolent raiders, or the terror of Lysenko's NKVD abductions, hope exists in the South Urals, hope for morality and a better world. This hope comes in the form of the Ural League, their militia the Ural Guard, and their leader, the Latvian Priest Janis Mendriks. The Ural Guard, themselves experiencing the suffering brought about by imprisonment, war or slavery, had marched south from the frozen northern wastes, and more specifically, the labor camp Vorkuta, and found a place to call home in the city of Ust-Katav. Mendriks seeks to create a safer region, where his Ural Guard can protect the people from the very dangers that they now face, and create a society of safety, where people work together for the security of all. His Ural Guard, being a well trained and effective fighting force, far out skill many of the non SS members of the Dirlewanger Brigade, and while they lack the equipment and training of Lysenko's NKVD, they certainly make up for it in numbers against them. The Ural League seeks to stamp out the onslaught of Dirlewanger, and end the shadow terror of the NKVD, attempting to finally bring security and safety to the people of the South Urals.

The last important piece in this chess game would be the large, but divided, council of the Southern Urals. The council, based in and centered around the city of Orenburg faces the major problem of being a large decentralized land mass, facing infighting between regions, and constant accusations of "centralizing tyranny" against the Orenburg Government if any attempts to mend the rifts between regions or interfere in any way with them. What is worse, the decentralized rule of the region makes it the most ideal spot for raiders to plunder, with the Council being unable to act against the terrors brought upon their people. The Orenburg council as it enters the dark year of 1962 will have to make very important decisions, the most widely recommended change being the appointment of a chairman, someone to guide the council through the dark times that it is now facing. The two most likely candidates for this position would be the outspoken centralizers Georgy Malenkov a former politician from the Soviet Union calling for a return to Central Communism, and Alexander Burba, an intellectual and academic who wishes to see more centralized rule with a maintaining of democracy. Either choice would see Orenburg turn away from the libertarian and decentralized rule that the council was founded upon, but as one might say, desperate times call for desperate measures.

As the Southern Urals slowly enter a new year, they either expect much the same, or the final showdown for control of the region in the coming future. However nobody could have anticipated the events that would come on that fateful new year of 1962.

* * *

Hello everyone, this is worldfan here, and I would like to welcome all readers to the prologue of The New Order:Heart of the Urals. This fanfiction will be a crossover between my favorite Hearts of Iron 4 mod, The New Order:Last Days of Europe. I know it might sound like it's going to be a cheesy fanfiction at first, but I intend to follow through the dark and depressing alternate history of TNO. So if you don't like it, let me know and I will see what I can do to cater to your needs, and fix any problems. While I have been banned from the discord for misconduct, I will continue to help tribute to the glorius mod of TNO.


	2. The New Age of the Urals

**~Dirlewanger~**

As opposed to the usual still and somber silence, or screams of terror in the air, one thing nobody would expect to ring into the night air of the usually silent Ural Mountains would be singing. The sound of SS Marschiert in Feindesland hung through the air as men laughed and spoke in slurred German, sitting around a bonfire beacon among the frozen night. The howling of the cold wind was barely heard in the camp of the raiders that night, for the usual celebrations post plunder commenced, enjoying their many spoils and riches they had proceeded to become intoxicated beyond belief, drowning their minds in the sweet release of drunkenness. The men of the feared Dirlewanger Brigade, perhaps the cruelest and vilest, most brutal and sadistic men of the Uralic wastes simply carried on without a care in the world. Oskar Diwlewanger himself sitting among his men in one of the moments which Dirlewanger was unfeared by those around him.

The Black Bandit himself was enjoying the drunken episode on this night, as he thought of no better way to celebrate the new years than a grand wave of debauchery throughout the camp. The usual visage of Dirlewanger was either a sadistic smirk, grimace or scowl, or outright expression of rage, there was no in between for the depraved man. This seemingly infallible rule did not cross Dirlewanger's mind as he thought about future plunder and wealth while drinking to his hearts content. His thoughts strayed to his men, equipped with whatever they could scrounge up. Raising from ancient Karabiners and Mosins through Tokarevs to the MP-40 and PPSh-41's to the MP 43/44 to the extremely rare AK-47, produced in few numbers by the Soviet successor states and whatever warlords had the machinery to produce them. There most numerous advantage though was there vehicles, these ranging from old soviet military vehicles and surviving trucks and mechanized vehicles of the 36. Waffen-Grenadier-Division der SS, to old staff cars and whatever leftover thrown together vehicles the desperate soviets had produced. Dirlewangers brigade was notorius for their modifications however, they had turned trucks and staff cars into lethal 20th century calvary, riddled with MG 32s and 40s, DS-39s, SG-43s, DSkH 1938s and many other various mounted weapons. These modern cavalry would speed forward, opening fire onto all who were not in Dirlewanger's brigade, and sometimes even those in it. That was how his bandits operated, they were rutheless and fast, showing no mercy to any who stood between them and the plunder and debauchery that would follow. The Deutsche Schutzstaffel were now just Deutsche to each other, "nemsty" to the Russians and "Nemeiter" to the occasional Kazakh, but everyone recognized them as terrifying. They were the most elite of the raiders, Dirlewanger thoughts trailed to his time in the SS, his smile adopted a sadistic tinge as he remembered the brutal repressions which had led these SS men to be trained into the most fearsome men to ever grace the Urals.

He stood up from the log that he used as a temporary resting place, his men barely lifting their attention from whatever talks or other pleasures they were engaging in. He stumbled slightly at first, but the Black Bandit quickly righted himself, trying to clear his mind for the moment. For Dirlewanger it seemed that he slowly was able to retrieve his composure of strength, walking forward if not a bit awkwardly. He starting moving towards his tent, as he would need rest. There was no doubt in Dirlewangers mind that this rest would give way to the splitting headache of the next day, but he cared little for that at the moment, he only followed his instincts to lay down on his mattress, in his drunken sober his mind struggled, flitting occasionally to random thoughts and memories, questions sprang up about everything around him. These questions were silenced when Dirlewanger let out a tired sigh and collapsed upon the mattress, sinking it slightly beneath his weight. His mind spinning slightly, feeling as if it was going in a down spiral, just waiting to crash. Then the crash came, silence.

Then the awakening, the noise, however slight, entered Dirlewanger's ear lobes, he awoke immediately and felt the same sensation he had felt for years on every morning, pain. The hangover he experienced was nothing unusual, slightly stronger than average, but nothing unbearable. He quickly flung his legs over the side of the mattress as he used his hands to grip the mattress. It was worn but sturdy, the material being tough and slightly uncomfortable, but strong enough to last years in the harsh southern Urals. He pulled himself up, staggering slightly from the blood rush as well as the head splitting ache, before righting himself and walking to his tent entrance. It was early morning, several men were on guard, mostly slumping against any structure they could fine, drinking bottles of alcohol or flasks of water, some using whatever scarce cigars they could find, or using plants in wrap as substitutes. The wind was as cold as always, the death grip of the cold still carried throughout the land, but he was used to it. In his headache he called out in a stiff and bitter German, "What time is it".Not so much of a question as a demand, a soldier who bore the SS runes upon his shoulder quickly replied "Around 5:00 or so, Kommandant, it is just past time for the daily inspection". Ah his loyal SS, still always respectful and loyal to their commander, even in their state where any formal military standings should be abolished. Dirlewanger pondered upon his military structure for a moment, other than the ranks of certain officers and himself, who held the title of commander, there was no formal military ranking for common soldiers, they were all simple raiders, nothing else determined their military rankings. Dirlewanger gave a nod of confirmation to the soldier who had passed the information and continued on. He walked over to the his officers and ordered them to gather their divisions for inspection.

By the time all of the men were assembled Dirlewanger, had managed to get over the pain for the most part, and stopped his groggy stumbling and slack demeanor, now he stood up right, examining his men with keen eyes. They were all equipped, from various simple plain clothed uniforms, to worn Red Army uniforms and old Wehrmacht and Schutzstaffel uniforms, with the latter being only worn by the members the 36th Waffen Grenadier division, the men all stood at attention, all of them feared what would happen should they be caught slouching. Some of the men would have fear in their eyes, others, mostly the SS, showed discipline and indifference to their commander. But as he was walking down the line and overlooking many of the men, he suddenly felt heat, then all he saw was white, heat, white. Silence Reigned.

**~Lysenko~**

Cold silence, all that was heard throughout the Magnitogorsk complex was cold silence This silence was the preferred work atmosphere for the Madman of Magnitogorsk, it provided no distractions to his work. His methodical reading of reports was not to be interrupted, or his intense research and numerous record keeping and his further planning. Lysenko's thoughts were all on his current interpretation of his numerous statistical reports, the number of subjects abducted by the NKVD from the local regions had taken a noticeable drop, while factory production was staying stable, and his material needs were being fulfilled by the numerous metals harvested from the mountains. His agricultural policies during the times of the old Soviet Union had been revolutionary, his thoughts and dreams were stretching to new horizons. He thought he was destined to bring about the scientific revolution, one which would change the world. No smile was brought to Lysenko's face at these thoughts however, his constant knowledge of his eventual future accomplishments did little to quell the scientists troubled thoughts on the present.

He knew he would do it eventually, but sooner was preferable to later, and he was running out of time if he wanted the ability to live within a new USSR for long. He was interrupted in his thoughts by a knock at his office door followed by a cautious voice, "Leader, I ask permission to enter", this rattled Lysenko, he hated disturbances in his work, but none the less, he answered with a firm "Yes, enter when ready". The man entered the room, revealing that as Lysenko suspected, an officer of the NKVD stepped carefully but in a orderly manner towards the desk. Lysenko could see the tension in the are that permeated the minds of all of his man, even his own. He had seen the paranoia in newer recruits, and indeed some of the older ones. After all, with his own intolerance for slacking or any form of disobedience, his men were very mindful of their own words and actions, as they could be killed for a misstep. Lysenko put those thoughts of disloyalty aside for now, he had to figure out the purpose of his interrupter. "My Leader, we have picked up unexpected levels of electrical discharges, combined with uncharacteristic atmospheric pressure and noticeable changes in temperature which are erratic, the wildlife is unusually aggressive, 4 separate incidents have been reported where members of our infantry auxiliaries were attacked by wild animals". Lysenko remained unflinching at this news, but then he let out a demand "Give me the paperwork for all 4 separate incidents, your words mean nothing without documentation". The man swiftly drew out a folder, containing separate documents on the animal attacks, as well as numerous other reports, including the monitoring of the environment. "Dismissed" Lysenko said in his usual calm voice, letting the officer know he was no longer needed. The officer gave a curt salute before walking out of the room, softly shutting the door behind him. Lysenko's eyes gazed over the paperwork, scanning the details and making sure that no detail was left unseen. Lysenko had developed remarkable attention to detail, this skillful scanning ability was the result of years spent living behind the walls, away from the field work he had spent his earlier year on. His life was papers, papers and oversight, he put his sole attention towards the true goal. The only goal that mattered, even if it made Lysenko move away from the real world and experience life through words on the page and the oversight of his failing experiments.

Not to say Lysenko never hot enjoyment, as he read he passively though upon the success of many of his experiments, however his thoughts then turned to his far many more failures. The doctor had thought before the war that experimentation upon humans in order to increase biological limits was unethical and unnecessary, something changed after the war. Lysenko realized how foolish he was, looking back, he should have never been so naive as to think that morality and science were compatible. Science was the ultimate, the truth, the endless well of knowledge and meaning for all things, Lysenko sighed as he thought back upon his mistakes, if he had only discarded that blind morality sooner he would have saved his motherland, he would have been able to rest. He should've known long ago that the pain and torment that he now put his test subjects through was not a violation of human rights or unlawful, it was a blessing. He hated it when his subjects begged him to stop or screamed in agony, 'Don't they realize what I am doing for them, what I am giving them!?'. No, those uneducated fools would learn in time, their suffering was his gift to them, for they would become stronger, faster, smarter. They would become perfect, whatever they experienced along the way were just necessary setbacks. As his subconscious musings came to an end, his brain had finished collecting and processing the documents before him. As a biologist, Lysenko knew that animals did not randomly attack other animals for no reason, it was either the primal need for sustenance, a form of fear, or territorial ambition. He could not dismiss that the fact of animal aggression in recent hours could be entirely natural, even if it was improbable. He sat there musing on this for a short while longer, before his mind passed to the other subjects, the electrical charge in the air was out of his field, but he knew it was inconceivable for macroscopic levels of electricity to simply travel without a compact accumulation of atoms which could use their electrons to conduct it. He was a bit more versed in the temperature aspect of the reports, as he had to be versed in it for his study of wheat in the old USSR.

The temperature situation unnerved Lysenko, sure it was normal for advanced fluctuations in temperature, but even so in a region like the Urals the temperature increase of over 17 degrees in the middle of winter, with a lack of direct sun contact, and in the span of 20 minutes was extremely unusual. Lysenko's thoughts were interrupted by a notice of time, 5:00 A.M, the time for his daily experiments would begin soon. He would soon have all of his chief scientists gathered around, for a test which many(even Lysenko) had some doubt about. The test was the administration of certain mentally enhancing chemicals, which had no specific name for most of those involved, to two separate test subjects, placed in two adjacent rooms, with a wall in between them. These effects were skeptically supposed to produce a mental link between the two subjects, this ability would be very useful should it come about, bringing a infinite amount of interrogation and information extracting potential. The experiment was going to be administered soon, but before Lysenko could register the potential time that this experiment would take, among other things, he quickly had to spin around upon feeling a heat sear away at his flesh. Lysenko was never one to be cautious,hence why his entire staff of the NKVD were often given extreme fear, an reminders for those who did not comply with his will. He had his NKVD agents implicated in any "treason"(often simply suspicious men or acts considered "unpatriotic") in which they failed to report, this would ensure that his agents, with their intelligence gathering mastery, would always report whatever they heard that might be considered suspicious directly to the doctor. This meant ratting out their comrades, but it was better than both of them getting the noose. So when Lysenko, who had feared assassination for some time, felt heat coming upon his skin that caused him immense pain, he spun around quickly before dropping to the floor and moving to his right, fearing some sort of flamethrower used by a traitorous agent. Instead what he felt as he closed his eyes during his fall was a lurching in his stomach, and a feeling of dread and unease, before he himself was gone.

**~Ural Guard~**

The Ural Guard were not enjoying debauchery, or calmly looking over files in the night. No, the Ural Guard was in the middle of a battle. Leonid clutched the grip of his PPSh-41 in his palms, he was extremely tense, his breathing was heavy. They had been on routine patrol, when they were ambushed by raiders on a narrow road. They had jumped out from the forest, many in the forest jumping out from behind trees or rocks and opening fire. However despite the surprise attack and initial losses on the side of the Ural League, the Guards had quickly gotten a massive upper hand upon the fight becoming more of an organized shootout. Leonid braced himself, as he heard a shout in what he deemed to be Kazakh" ". He wasn't versed in Kazakh more than just many basic words, so that was all he could interpret. None the less, he knew that they were facing the same direction as he was, since he had his back to his protective rock cover. This meant they were coming directly to the right of him, he clutched his weapon fiercely, he had expended 23 rounds, most of them in a panic at the initial ambush. He was focused now however, and he realized he needed to conserve ammunition, as he heard snow being crushed under foot with some carelessness, he decided that he needed to only use one bullet, so he hugged the rock. He heard that the steps were close to the rock, so he drew out his NR-40, ready to shove the knife into the throat of his enemy. He saw the coated arm of the raider grip the rock, he waited, he needed to hit a vital region. As he saw the man expose his and head around the rock, he stuck his knife into the front of the man's throat, pulling back on the knife and ripping through the mans vocal cords and throat, causing blood to spray out from the throat. The man could not scream as he clutched his throat, he soon fell struggling in to the snow, the white powder being warmed and bloodied by the staining red fluid that ran through it. Two other man shouted, and they dashed across the snow towards either their fallen comrade, or towards his killer. Leonid quickly put his knife away, redrawing his SMG and preparing his hands to squeeze the trigger on when needed. He saw the first one come the opposite direction his friend had, around the left side of the rock, so he unleashed 3 rounds into him, the man soon fell to the ground, his choking gasps heard until the last minute by Leonid. The second Kazakh let out a growl of rage, looking over the top of the rock as he wielded M1891 fired a shot at Leonid. Leonid dodged out of the way of the bullet and returned fire, feeling the adrenaline come with the thoughts of what said bullet would do to him. He fired 6 rounds, he sunk one into the raiders shoulder, 4 of them hit the rock and the last round struck a tree many yards away. The man continued to fire, Leonid feeling the next two round whiz by him as the mans aim was hampered by his pained shoulder, he charged forward, firing more rounds, about 7 if he counted right. The man caught 2 more rounds, one through the forearm and another through his right breast, missing any vitals. None the less the man slumped down from his perch upon the rock, gravely bleeding and in severe pain, Leonid leaped up onto the rock firing 4 more rounds before he caught a Mosin round in the chest from another raider 230 feet away. He coughed slightly, but with the adrenaline in his body he fired a well placed round into the other raiders chest, striking through his ribs and into the lung, causing a rupture, and the raider went down coughing blood. He slid back down the rock, cursing to himself as he examined the wound, the bullet had been at close range, the round had pierced his flesh, missing the bones and cleaving out his back. That was lucky, for if the round has become stuck there would be no removing it with ease.

The raiders were wounded, and Leonid wanted to give them a reminder not to mess with the Guard. He lifted himself off of the ground, quickly throwing his weight against the rock, he readied himself. He spun around the left side of the rock, unleashing rounds he did not count into the raiders among the trees, or in the bushes. He took a bullet to the leg, but managed to keep going. He unleashed many more shots, he didn't count his rounds, he just needed to make sure he removed those who were targeting him. He fell back behind the rock immediately when he pulled the trigger and felt no recoil. He had no spare ammunition on him, routine patrols usually didn't garner extra supplies, those were reserved for the long range combat units and those who defended the core land. However, the raiders he had downed, about 4-5, were now dead weight. Leonid prayed to whatever god was listening that those men would heed their comrades pleas for help, instead of focusing on him. Luck was on his side, as he could hear the load crunching of snow slowly change directions, away from him and to the origin point of those Kazakh worded cries, which he didn't have time to decipher. He had had his knife drawn for some time, and he was certain that they would not forget about him. As if by the will of the forest itself, he soon felt heat, tremendous heat. He stood up, bearing his weight against the rock as he felt the heat, the he saw the light. It was hard to describe, but it felt painful, but at the same time a strange sense of euphoria came over him, he felt heavy, then he felt... _Void._

**~?~**

He had long since grown used to the cold, himself walking through the snowy forests of the region very often, ignoring the freezing feelings of winters grip. He had long ago abandoned these regions to move to the western reaches of Russia, only after he had fought into Turkestan to crush those enemies of liberty. He had long since forgotten the humble settings of rural life, replaced by an Orenburg that was briefly more developed than the one his youth was spent in, before it was replaced by an even more saddened state than what had been last seen through his youthful eyes 40 years ago, how cruel time could be. He was not ever expecting to return here, he had remained in the industrial heart of Russia for years, aiding Nikolai Bukharin in his reign as successor to Lenin. His well off family had provided him with a decent life in this small city, but that was not to last. He had joined the Red Army, he had fought in the east, and he had been led away from this place, never intending to return. Now he was back, and like he always thought he would have rather preferred his life from those years ago. He had been a party member, an elite member of the politburo, he was finally up in the world. But it all came crashing down in just a few years, his success falling underneath the overwhelming weight of the collapsing Soviet Union, crushing his position in the party and burying his notoriety with the corpse of the old Communist Regime.

He was rather bitter now, thinking about what could have been, what he could have done. What was he know, compared to then? A simple member of rural communes in a small and unimportant section of the Southern Urals. He sighed, thinking back, he could have been a star, he could have been so great. Before the Germans came, he could always imagine and dream up possible ways for him to get into being successor to Bukharin, feeling giddy on the inside while imagining his new position. His optimistic thoughts on his own future were swept away under the treads of Panzers and under the sharp steel of the Luftwaffe's bombs. He thought as he fled east, and then south, that he might yet become leader, or at least a powerful figure, once again when the Germans were driven from the lands west of the Urals. But his hope dimmed when the German forces held for 10 years, he had soon lost his faith that he would live to see a liberated Russia. But then, partisans and warlords pushed west, they reached Moscow, and he had thought he would have a chance to return. But then he remained rooted in this city of Orenburg upon learning the Germans had held, and defeated the Russian leaders, which had split into infighting.

This was too much for him, he was done waiting for others to reinstate the old politburo, to give him significance once more. No, he had finally decided, from his birth place, he would not let such power be returned or given to him, he would take it. He would seize the opportunity by the horns, and he would fashion Orenburg as his Petrograd, and himself as the new Lenin. But unlike Lenin, he would not bathe the streets red in the blood of the Bourgeoisie, he would merely wait and use democracy to gain his strength. The system he thought inefficient would give to his rise, he would use the democracy and need for central authority to accelerate his transition to a position of power. Of course, his new leadership would mean the end of the Libertarian ideals so treasured by the people right? No, he would use a facade, a ruse, the same one used by Lenin decades earlier, to grow his support. He would claim he merely want to further bring centralization, but not outright end the system, he would craft a web of lies and deceit so great and full of valor that no man would see past his ruse. He would regain his power, regardless of the notion of others that he would never see the Politburo chamber again as he once had. No, they would all see, they would all see that he would bring them back to the great Soviet Times, and that he, not any upstart opponents, would pave the streets of gold and lay the foundations of silver. His musings were interrupted by heat, and then light. He stumbled back, falling in the snow, fearing an attacker. He had never been a physically strong man, and he feared death greatly. He would cover his face with his jacket, shielding himself from heat and light that he revered as if it were the will of the old biblical god, blinding the men of little faith and throwing him to the ground with his presence. He felt this for very little time, as he was quickly overcome with a drowsiness, and then he felt nothing in this world anymore, of course the man would live to see another in its place.

* * *

Sorry for the delay on this chapter, it was backed up by a lack of will and some disinterest. But now I am committed to creating a third chapter, and starting to get into the meat of the story. Without delay, it is time Ibid you farewell dear reader. With best intent, Worldfan.


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